


April Daffodils

by Tammany



Series: Easter Daffodils [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Matchmaker Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small, meditative, as much character development and thinking about the Holmes family as it is "romance." Indeed, there is more matchmaking than romance. But I kind of like it--it's quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Daffodils

Mummy insisted on them coming out for Easter dinner—John and Mary and the baby, of course, and Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft whined—as did Sherlock—but when Mummy applied the thumbscrews both her boys tended to give in.

Mummy was in her element, talking a mile a minute, crooning over the baby, half-finishing one chore only to take up another. Father was himself—steady, quiet, kind. He watched over them all, keeping an eye on the fireplace and tagging Mummy if the guests’ glasses were empty.

“They seem happier,” he said softly to Sherlock, as he came out of the sitting room where John and Mary were sitting on the sofa, enjoying leaving the baby to Mummy’s care. “Glad to see that. Nice people.”

“Hard times pass,” Sherlock said, looking in and smiling. “Having the baby helped.”

“I daresay you managing to stay in London didn’t hurt, either,” Father said, with a crooked smile. “Do try not to get into trouble this time? Mummy wept over the Christmas roast, you know.”

Sherlock nodded, soberly. Yes—Mummy would have wept, and he hadn’t been able to offer her his glorious victory over Magnussen and comeuppance over Mycroft as recompense for her ruined festivities. If it had all gone as planned, how she’d have laughed….

“No,” he said. “This time I’m afraid the baby’s the most adventure I can offer.”

It all went well. Mummy’s leg of lamb came out perfectly, covered in a blanket of crisp fat cracklings, but blood-rare inside, all tender and scented with rosemary and garlic. The pan roasted potatoes were crunchy on the outside and butter-smooth inside. The asparagus were fat and tender. The mint and peas were sublime. It was a classic spring meal. Mary and John ate and told stories. Mummy trotted out all the worst tales of Sherlock and Mycroft growing up, making Mycroft blush and grumble…and Sherlock howl and swear none of it was true.

Sherlock was occupied with Mary and John and the baby for most of the day, so he barely noticed Mycroft helping Mummy prepare the dinner, or clear up after, or bring in the coffee and the comforting dish of home-made custard—not fancy crème brulee, but good old baked custard in a deep blue stoneware bowl decorated with white stars. Only when dishes were done and John and Mary were settling the baby in her travel crib did Sherlock slip out into the garden to find Mycroft already there, leaning pensively on the wrought iron pike gate in front of the house.

“Just where I want to see you—behind bars,” Sherlock said. “Long overdue, if you ask me.”

Mycroft said, “But I didn’t ask,” in a voice that told Sherlock he had on his little, wry half-smile. “And let’s be honest, brother-mine, of the two of us you’re the most likely to die in jail.”

“Only because you’ll burn the records before they can bring you to trial,” Sherlock said, and leaned on the other panel of the gate. Now they stood together, each leaning easily on the wrought iron, looking out across the field opposite the house.

“Look,” Mycroft said, softly. “[Roe deer](http://cdn2.arkive.org/media/C9/C92BB477-CB1A-41F5-8646-A519775313B8/Presentation.Large/Female-roe-deer-suckling-her-young-while-a-male-sniffs-her-scent.jpg). I forget how [small](http://www.blueroebuck.com/image/roe_fawns.jpg) they are.”

They were small—hardly larger than a big dog or a goat. There were four of them—a buck with the odd, upright spires of short antlers, a doe, and two dappled fawns. The picked their way across the meadow, indifferent to Mycroft and Sherlock’s steady gaze.

“Not afraid of us,” Mycroft said, under his breath.

“Not hunting season,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I don’t think Mummy and Father allow hunters on the estate in any case.”

“Never stopped a determined poacher.”

Mycroft shrugged, grunted, and fell silent until the deer slipped away into the low brush and off to the wooded land beyond. Then he said, “Cigarette?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sherlock said, hiding a smirk. He knew perfectly well Mycroft was asking, not offering.

“I mean, do you have any?” Mycroft grouched.

“Only my usual,” Sherlock said.

“I’m used to it,” Mycroft said—an outright lie.

“You hardly ever smoke anywhere but here—and occasionally when you’re upset. Or both.”

“Do just get them out?”

Sherlock took the pack of Dunhills out of his pocket, flipped the top, and shook two out. He eased the packet back, slipped out his lighter, and handed one cigarette to Mycroft, leaning down and tucking his own between his lips. He flicked the lighter and drew in deeply, until the ember burned bright. He opened his mouth, let the first cloud of smoke drift lazily out, then reached out and flicked the lighter a second time for Mycroft.

His brother leaned down and drew more tentatively—puff, puff, puff. The tip flared and flared again, catching. He turned away resting his elbows on the top rod of the gate, and sucked—and coughed.

“I shouldn’t bum to you,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “It’s wasted on you.”

“I’m just out of practice,” Mycroft grumbled.

“Mike—you don’t smoke. Not really. Get a pack of lights. Or an e-cigarette.” His scorn floated on the air like the smoke of their cigarettes.

Mycroft sucked again. Sherlock could feel the quiver as he fought down another cough. “No, no. This is good,” he said.

The sun had set, and twilight was almost gone, now. Sherlock could see Mycroft’s features in the glare of the cigarette—eyes, long beaky nose, wide, thin lips.

“It was a good dinner,” Sherlock said, as though conceding a point in an ongoing argument.

“Well, lamb,” Mycroft said, dismissively. “Hard to go wrong with a nice joint of lamb, so long as you don’t overcook it.”

“Not what I meant.”

Mycroft sighed. “It could have been worse,” he conceded. “You could have spiked the punch.”

“I try never to repeat myself,” Sherlock said. “It keeps the act fresh.”

Mycroft’s eyes shot over in an exasperated glare. “’Fresh’ isn’t quite the word I’d have chosen.”

“Ah, but you’ve no appreciation of my métier.”

Mycroft snorted, and drew in again. He frowned. “Lestrade smokes this brand, doesn’t he?”

“When he’s smoking,” Sherlock said. “Right now he’s off them. Arms are covered in patches.” He smirked. “That’s why I’ve got ‘em. He gave me what was left of his, for fear he’d break down and smoke them all.”

“Mmmmm,” Mycroft said, and held out the cigarette. He looked at it dubiously. “I would think it would be a relief to be free of them.”

“Mike, if they made cigarettes with stabilizers you’d still fall off the habit,” Sherlock sighed. “When you’re used to the things, you miss them.”

“Better I’m not used to them. One less thing to control me.”

Sherlock sighed. “Paranoid.”

“Practical.” Mycroft straightened, and dropped the cigarette on the garden path, crushing it out with his toe. “Enough for me. I think I’ll go for a little walk before I come in.” He opened the gate and stepped out, walking into the growing dark alone.

Sherlock looked down where a last few specks of ember glowed. “Wasted,” he said again, regretfully. He ground the butt out completely, then kicked it under the rose bush in the hedge by the gate. Then he leaned on the gate again, drew down more smoke, and watched the near-invisible shape of his brother walking away down the road.

He needs a good dog, he thought to himself. Or a pet bird—parrots are good. Affectionate. Clever. Better than goldfish.

He frowned at his own turn of mind. When had he started worrying about Mycroft, instead of the other way around? It was against the natural order, wasn’t it? And yet…

He thought of his return the year before, and the sudden realization that two years had made a visible difference in Mycroft. He’d returned to a brother sadder, quieter, hungrier for the time they spent together. No less tart and witty, but less fiercely critical on his return. Now, over a year after that return, Mycroft was even quieter.

He’d enjoyed the baby, Sherlock thought. He didn’t much like John, and never would, but he’d been quite doting over the baby, reluctant though he’d been to get caught at it. But Sherlock had seen him slip the girl’s binky back into her hand when she’d dropped it, and he’d seen the long index finger stroke gently over her tiny fingers when she gripped tight. He’d seen the half-smile at dinner when the child had bounced in her chair and sung a long line of babble in an attempt to join the adult conversation.

He wondered if Mycroft ever sat by the fireplaces in his residences and longed for someone to fill the opposite chair.

No, he thought fiercely. Too morbid—enough about empty chairs.

A bird, he thought. A cockatoo or a parrot. Or he could irritate Mycroft and get him a budgie—something trivial and commonplace, but packing more potential than was expected. He’d studied budgies for a case once, impressed at the intensity of interaction and bonding they offered. Common, ordinary, unassuming budgies…the everyman of the pet store.

Common as dirt. That’s it—he’d get a budgie for Mycroft and name it “Lestrade,” and irritate both men in one move.

”What are you thinking about,” John said, sauntering out to join him.

“I am considering getting a budgie and naming it ‘Lestrade,” Sherlock said, dropping his cigarette and stomping it out. “I thought I’d give it to Mycroft.”

John snorted. “Ok, I’ll admit, if a man ever needed a pet it’s Mycroft. Not that I’m sure the budgie deserves it. But—‘Lestrade’? Do they even know each other?”

Sherlock never ceased wondering at how much John forgot that mattered, and how much that didn’t matter he retained. Why did other people delete all the wrong things. “Yes, they’re…associated,” he said, dryly. “Mycroft’s been known to use the good inspector as his errand boy. Among other things.”

“Doubt Greg’s all that happy about that,” John said. He huddled into his wool jumper. “Bit chill out.”

“It’s barely April,” Sherlock pointed out. “Hardly likely to suffer a heat wave, are we?”

John grunted, glowered at Sherlock for his sauce, and peered out at the lane beyond. “I thought I saw Mycroft out here with you.”

“He was. Went walking.”

“Alone?”

“What else?” Sherlock considered, and said, “That’s what got me thinking about the budgie. He needs a pet. Dog. Bird. Something.”

“Dog would be better to go on walks with.” John snorted. “Not that I can imagine Mycroft taking a dog out walkies. Or if he did—it would be one of those tiny, fussy, dainty things that look like they’ll break in two trying to drop a turd.”

Sherlock gave a sour grin, and wondered uneasily why the thought was more forlorn than amusing tonight. “He grew up out here,” he said. “In the country. He’s more likely to like a spaniel than a Chihuahua.”

John didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The two men were good at sharing silence.

Sherlock pulled out the pack of Dunhills, preparing to light another. John cleared his throat and said, “Rather you didn’t.” Sherlock sighed, and put them away again.

“How long have they known each other?” John asked.

Sherlock had no trouble following the question. He shrugged. “Years. Longer than I’ve known him. Met Lestrade through Mike.”

“Mmmm. Who’d have thought it,” John said. “Those two—friends.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“No?”

Sherlock considered, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Mmm.” John sighed. “Your mother’s making rum toddy,” he said. “You may want to come in, soon.”

“No rush,” Sherlock said. “She gets it all set up, and makes it on demand.”

“Well, I’m going in to demand some,” his friend said. “Before the missus manages to get it all.”

Sherlock smiled—Mary drank little and would be hard put to drain Mummy’s reserves. Sherlock was fairly sure there were several different varieties of rum stocked in the cellar, most with more than one bottle back-up.

He considered the dark lane, and pulled out his phone, typing in, “Need to consult. Please come soonest.” He added in the address and his initials.

A moment later Lestrade texted back, “WTF? Sherlock, that’s two hours out of London.”

“Not if you keep your foot on the gas. SH”

“What’s the problem?”

“Not sure,” Sherlock said. “That’s why I need to consult. SH”

“Hell. Sherlock, it’s late.”

“Do you have work tomorrow? SH”

“No…”

“You can spend the night. Sleep in late. There will be rum toddy when you get here. SH”

He could amost hear Lestrade sigh and see him rub his face in weary resignation.

“Yeah, yeah. All right, you tosser. Expect me in a couple of hours.”

“Will do,” Sherlock typed, and went to warn Mummy and Father of a London budgie’s imminent landing…

Tomorrow morning Mycroft wouldn’t have to go walking alone in the faint spring fog and the wild daffodils.


End file.
